Toussaint

They don't care much about Halloween. I saw one girl with a little face paint. What?! No Halloween? How could they? Ah, but don't stop there...

I awoke the next morning and rolled over to face my window. Big pink clouds. Big blue sky. Sigh. What do I do on All Saint's Day? There's the park or I could go to the market. Yes, but what do the French do on such a day as this? They go to the cemetery to put flowers on the graves of their ancestors. But I'm not related to anyone who died here (that I know of).

I have fallen in love with a certain man. His name is Paul Cezanne. He died in 1906.

I left the apartment that morning with a book, a journal, and a map in hand. I found the cemetery on the eastern side of town. Okay, Paul Cezanne. There should be some sort of sign, right--a big yellow arrow that shouts, "Paul Cezanne! Buried here!" There was no arrow. I wandered from tomb to tomb for half an hour.

Eleanor, I guess this means you'll have to ask. There's a man standing right over there. Here goes.

"Est-ce que vous savez où Cezanne est enterré?"
"Mais, oui! Bien sûr! C'est La Toussaint."

Yes! I love it when I can get a phrase out like that. He kindly showed me a map of the cemetery and how to find the grave of my long lost lover. I approached Cezanne, anticipation raging. I almost passed him up.

And there he was. I should say, "Voilà!" Right there among the other tombstones, the pine trees, the chrysanthemums, and the iron rod crosses. Someone had placed a pinecone on his grave. Others had arranged little pots of pansies. And me? What could I offer but the imaginary, polka-dotted violet I held in my hand?

Merci, Monsieur Cezanne. Tu m'inspires.